Best Served Cold
by NocturnalRites
Summary: Sometimes it's not only the bad guys who reap the whirlwind.  Involves both AU  Palindrome  and original versions of Wendy Watson, the Middleman and assorted characters.
1. Chapter 1

Rating: M (for implied sexual acts)

Characters: Wendy Watson (both versions), The Middleman (both versions), plus assorted cast

Word Count: 792

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, the show or the comic and I am not being paid for this.

Summary: Sometimes, it's not only the bad guys who reap the whirlwind.

Spoilers: Possible spoilers in later chapters for Doomsday.

Setting: Post Palindrome. May also be Post-Doomsday.

Song: Bells for Her (Tori Amos, Under the Pink)

Quote: "In revenge and in love, woman is more barbarous than man." - Friedrich Nietzsche  
>"Revenge is a dish best served cold." (multiple sources)<p>

Author's Note: This began life as yet another song drabble, but had the potential for a longer story, so I'm letting it run. Fair warning: I am completely pantsing this, so I have no defined plot as of yet. Updates will likely be slow and I haven't an ultimate story ending in mind as of yet, so I can't guarantee an HEA for everyone. But I do hate emotionally unsatisfying endings, so I can semi-guarantee that, at least.

BEST SERVED COLD

_Infamouse Fashion House in a parallel universe that's a lot less evil than it used to be  
><em>_9:00 p.m.  
><em>_Revenge Time_

Control. Life was all about control. You couldn't allow anyone to make the least crack in it or the world started falling apart around your ears. Wendy Watson had learned that lesson after her father had disappeared and had made it the focus of her life ever since. So far, it was the one lesson which had never failed her. Perhaps the only lesson.

Which was why she was in bed with a beardless boyish incubus. Sometimes, control had a price. But better a price than a cost.

Rolling onto her side, she walked her fingers up Trevor's chest. With each touch, he flinched as if she were painting his skin with acid. Not far off the mark. A vial of holy water a day kept the incubi away, or at least kept them from dining on your soul. She smiled at his reaction. "So. What do you have for me?"

The incubus's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "We've been over the clothes you brought. The scent indicates the last wearer had an overactive pineal gland, possibly caused by exposure to a highly supernaturally charged area such as the Underworld."

"And this tells me what?"

"You'd wanted some method of trying to connect with your sister-self—"

She poked him harder, heard flesh sizzle. "_Don't_ call her that."

He sucked in a shaky breath. "—your alternate self. Right now, the only way alternate selves seem able to communicate is if both have their pineal gland removed. Like two-way radios with one shared frequency. If hers were normal, there wouldn't be anything we could do. It's like everyone with a normal pineal gland uses the same frequency. Too much chatter on the channel. But hers is really abnormal. We can stimulate yours to match hers."

"And what would that do?"

"Tune you into the same frequency. It would be tough, and I'm not sure the link would be permanent, but the effect should be pretty much the same."

She sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her body. Let the incubus look at the dessert tray; she didn't care. "In what way might it be different?"

"You'd have a lot more static, so to speak. No way could we match you perfectly. It's going to be more like tuning a ham radio to a distant station than just turning on a two-way. Actual communication probably wouldn't work, but you'd see and hear what she did, just in bursts. You might be able to influence things she says or does, too."

"Would she know it?"

The incubus licked his lips nervously. "That, I can't tell you. It's never been tried before. One thing's for certain, nobody will be expecting it."

Unexpected was good. Wendy's mind raced. Oh, the possibilities. "Can you do this?"

"It would be tricky. And dangerous. But yes, it's possible. The question is, is it really worth the risk?"

"I don't see any other alternative." How that admission pained her. "I thought that one-eyed pain in the ass would do me a favor and drink himself to death after I shot his Boy Wonder, but apparently, thanks to _her_, he's gone back to work. He's becoming a problem, Trevor, and I don't tolerate problems. I believe the cause of the problem might be the best solution."

"Are you sure it will work?"

There was a note of concern in his voice, but not, she knew, for her. She looked down at him with veiled dislike. That was the problem with minions. They were either mindless or coerced, never as much help as a like-minded partner, and they were all about self-preservation.

"You'd better hope it does. The Middleman isn't a big threat to me yet- " no way was she going to undermine her position by telling Trevor the truth - "but he's a persistent one. He's also got more lives than a colony of cockroaches. I don't want him to get lucky." Another little fact she wasn't sharing with Trevor; just how close to _lucky_ One Eyed Snake had gotten a few times. "I might remind you that if _I_ go down, that means _you_ go down, and I don't mean in the way that involves lots of orgasms for me. Do we understand each other?"

He nodded, as she'd known he would. For all he'd like to see her thrown under a bus, Trevor was, at heart, a practical sort. She'd known that when she'd helped him plan his coup to oust that bitch Roxy and take over the former halfway house.

"The usual price?"

"Three virgins, with souls, from the darning camps. Your choice." She paused. "And Trevor?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

She dug a finger into his sternum until his flesh blistered red. He didn't scream – she wasn't the only one with control issues – but he went white as, well, a ghost.

"Don't even think about double-crossing me."

His eyes flared crimson with naked hate and hunger, but he bowed his head in submission.

Control. Sometimes, it was all about reminding people just how much you had over them.


	2. Chapter 2

_Middleman HQ  
><em>_Middlelore Library  
><em>_Present Universe  
><em>_..with a capital M that rhymes with M that rhymes with Middleman  
><em>_(Song: Black – Sarah McLachlan)_

Something was wrong. The feeling had been stuck in the back of Wendy's mind for the last few days, like a small but painful stone in her shoe which she couldn't remove.

"Dubbie? Are you with me?"

With a start, she looked up from her sketch pad. "Sorry. Just distracted."

Her boss frowned. "I know you don't typically care for this part of the job, but I would have thought zombie research, of all things, would have gotten your attention."

"I've been listening. Sorry. Just...can't seem to focus today."

"What's distracting you?"

She glanced back down at the pad. A phase polaron cannon. Clarence's profile. Without thinking, she sketched in an eyepatch, shaded in some stubble, then frowned. "How are you with gut instincts?"

He shrugged. "While apparently an unscientific premise, I believe what we term 'gut instinct' is actually the subconscious putting together a picture from clues which elude the conscious mind. At times, it can provide valuable insight. Why? Is your gut instinct telling you something?"

She'd kept sketching while he talked, as she often did. For an artist with a pencil in her hand, it was a reflex more automatic than breathing. When she looked down at the pad again, cold condensed in the pit of her stomach. Her alternate self's ray gun now appeared on the page. Pointed straight at the back of alternate-Middleman's head. She turned the sketch pad around so he could see.

"Yeah, but it's not about brain-chewing undead. I think there's trouble in River City."

###

Wendy's sketch pad lay in the middle of the table. She hadn't picked it up in the last fifteen minutes. Since she'd shown him the initial images, image after image had blossomed from her pencil. Noser in bandages. A blasted-looking Middle headquarters. The last and most disturbing was a dark-haired version of Lacey, limp and lifeless. After drawing that, she'd put down her pencil and refused to pick it up again.

"I can't believe you won't follow up on this," Wendy said for the fifth time. Fifth time in the last hour, anyway. He knew the count was actually higher, but he hadn't started counting before then. "Okay, maybe it's not like having a vision with a Tarot card of Noser bursting into flames, but I _really_ feel there's something to it. Why aren't we trying to find some way of getting in touch?"

He put his own pencil down before he could accidentally break it in half and took a deep, measured breath. Then he took a second for good measure. For all Wendy's good points – and she had many – she also had the ability to punch his buttons as nobody else could.

"It's not my problem," he said, enunciating each syllable carefully. Not that he had any real hope that good diction would make the meaning penetrate. "It's _his_ world. _His_ duty. _His job. _Not mine. I wouldn't appreciate interference if the situations were reversed."

Wendy sighed and put her hands on her hips. "Okay, boss? You know what? I'm seriously freaked here. It's like automatic writing. I'm not making this stuff up."

"Dagnabbit, Dubbie, just exactly what do you want me to do? Drop everything and comb the world until I find another pair of Ivans? Hope that they're willing to work with us?"

"You're telling me with all the resources we've got, we can't get Ida to phone up O2STK and see about getting some gadget that might work? What about the brain trusts in Greenland? They're probably not doing anything more than counting penguins, anyway."

"There are no penguins in Greenland."

"What_ever_. You get the point. I mean, come on, if the _Ivans_ could manage to cobble together their device, we ought to be able to come up with something."

"Whether that's true or not, the fact is, there are boundaries that cannot and should not be crossed. There is only one Middleman for a reason. My alternate self is either competent enough to handle the job or he isn't. Either way, it's his responsibility. Just as _yours_ is to continue with your training."

Wendy blew air through her lips and leaned against the table. "Boy, you guys all flunked the 'plays well with others' part of kindergarten."

"'You guys'?"

"The Middlemen. "

"In case you've forgotten, we all banded together to take down Manservant Neville. I wouldn't call that 'not playing well with others'."

"You didn't band together. You had an army with just one target. And you were controlling the army. Big difference," she shot back. "Come on. You and Guy Goddard got into a fistfight over Candle, Junior–"

"He was about to attack_ my _suspect. I apprehended him, remember? And Guy threw the first punch. I simply finished the fight."

She went on as if she hadn't heard him, which she probably hadn't. "Then Guy melts his own [bleep]ing hand to trap you so he can kill you to take over your job. _Then_ I run into your fully loaded version. Anytime I mentioned you, he snarled like a dog whose hydrant was being peed upon, and when I got home, _your_ first move was to quiz me about how different you were from him."

Usually, her casual barbs bounced off him, but this time, one drew blood. "Wait, 'fully loaded' version? What exactly are you implying? That I'm less of a Middleman than he?"

"See! That's exactly what I mean! I _knew_ that would be what you keyed on." She poked a finger at him. "I was talking about his drinking habits, but you know what? Maybe it is more than that. If he decided to take action, he probably wouldn't be waiting for an engraved invitation approved by Emily Post before he did."

It wasn't the first time she'd made a casual observation about his alternate self, but it was the first time she'd sounded...approving. And was she somehow implying that he was less of a _man_ than his alternate self? Because he had discipline and respected boundaries? He pushed away from his chair and exhaled sharply, invoking one of the disciplines the Sensei had taught him to rechannel his flashfire temper.

"We're done for the day."

"But—"

He slammed his fist against the desk. She jumped back a few paces, her eyes going wide and dark. He pressed his advantage. At least she was finally listening. "Damn it, Dubbie! Either you respect my decision or you don't. Either you respect _me_ or you don't. I suggest you go home and decide whether you can answer 'yes' to both those questions before you return."


	3. Chapter 3

_Outside Fatboy Command  
>In an evil universe growing less evil all the time<em>

_(Song: Burn – Alkaline Trio)_

_Burn, baby, burn._

The Middleman leaned back against the saddle of the newly reclaimed Middlehog. Above Fatboy Command, flames painted the sky in violent hues.

Who said he didn't have artistic talent? That fire was a masterpiece.

The raid was not only the biggest he'd pulled off against Fatboy, but also the most profitable. The insider info he and Ida had decanted from the secured systems wasn't just dynamite; it was thermonuclear. He might not be able to bring the company down with it, but he could definitely weaken the foundations.

Then there were the physical contents. Food. Fuel. Items people were dying for, during this harsh winter. Plus a hotel's worth of expensively furnished offices. Things which would sell for a fortune on the black market. With help from Lacey's connections in the refugee community, he'd gotten the place stripped bare in record time. Anything worth salvaging had been loaded up for distribution to orphans and freed prisoners of the internment camps.

He'd even found the Middlehog in the vehicle annex. He'd liberated his old friend plus several bottles of prime Scotch from some VP's office. He wasn't _that_ much of a Robin Hood. Torching the place...that was personal. It was, after all, where Tyler had been murdered.

He should have been ecstatic. Instead, every instinct he had twanged like an out of tune guitar. Nothing added up.

A massive business complex stuffed with valuables and devastating insider info guarded by nothing more than a half-staff of inexperienced guards who were dumping loads at the thought of having to get into a real firefight. No resistance from the few employees at the site. Rich pickings, but with some glaring omissions. Like the absence of Manservant Neville's corpsicle, for one.

_Something_ was up. Neville's puppetmistress – he couldn't think of her as Wendy – was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't on that list. If she'd thrown him a bone, it had to be poison bait. All he could do now, though, was sit tight, wait for her to make a move, and hope like hell he was close to checkmating her.

Fuck. The only thing he hated more than waiting was chess. At least he got to watch the whole damn mess go up in smoke while he waited. He sighed in resignation, then keyed his watch.

"Ida. You getting all this on the real time recording?"

"Roger that, boss." The android sounded almost...gleeful. He shook his head. _Enthusiasm _and _Ida_ in the same sentence just didn't sound right, even if he knew she was anxious to keep him from backsliding into the slough he'd fallen into after Tyler's death.

"Everything secure there?"

"Tight as a drum. Had a wino come in and try to sleep on the lobby floor, but that's about it."

He'd figured _she_ would strike Middle HQ first. So much for that theory. "Start crosschecking the information we got and update our master list of targets. Going to stay here for a while and see if anything happens. Keep me posted if anything suspicious comes up."

"On it." The android cut the comm.

The Middleman settled back more comfortably against the motorcycle, grinning as an aerosolized soup dispenser went off like a giant bottle rocket. A shame Tyler couldn't be there to see it. But the thought of the murdered Middleboy raised only a pang of regret, not crippling guilt. Slipping his flask from his pocket, he raised it in salute.

"Hell of a funeral pyre for you, kid," he said. "Hope it sends you off to Valhalla, or whichever afterlife has the best booze and hottest babes with loosest morals."

He took a long swig, savoring the smoky burn. Damn near better than sex. Reluctantly, he capped the flask and tucked it beneath his belt.

His watch blared an alert signal, followed by Ida's voice. "Boss. Got something for you. Code 7 distress signal."

An ally in trouble. _That_ was what he'd been waiting for. Shit. Wen—_She_ had gone for the weaker links in his chain, not for a frontal assault. "Give me coordinates. Who is it?"

"Lacey."


End file.
